


Modal Verbs

by MyDearOuroboros



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Claustrophobia, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, M/M, Mentions of Blood, One Shot, Self-Harm, Tentacle Monsters, Violence, tentacle monsters with blasters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 21:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8417458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyDearOuroboros/pseuds/MyDearOuroboros
Summary: Modal Verb: (mod·al verb) Noun. An auxiliary verb that expresses necessity or possibility. English modal verbs include must, shall, will, should, would, can, could, may, and might. Keith gets trapped during battle. He's going to die alone, in the dark. He doesn't have time for the coulda-woulda-shoulda's, and yet-





	

Keith couldn’t move.

His heartbeat rushed in his ears, the beats running together in a continuous stream. The solid plate of plastic-metal above and around him had taken most of the blast, shielding him from the searing heat of pure quintessent fire, but had wrapped around the thick beam he’d ducked under for cover and fused to the station’s floor in the process. He scrabbled at the buckled edges, where the plate met the floor, and frantically followed the line with his fingers till he hit a still yellow-hot portion of the seam and yanked his hand back.

The red Paladin wasn’t that tall, but he couldn’t sit up off his knees, and the lean-to of soldered metal was wrapped around him, too, in a semi circle about a handswidth wider than him. He could scoot forward just enough to get his legs out from underneath him and crouch, but it took some serious contortion and smashing his knee against the wall. A roar outside made him freeze. Keith listened to his heartbeat and willed it to be quieter. 

As the metal cooled in the thin air, the world turned pitch black- almost. A tiny jagged line, where the pillar wasn’t quite fused to the panel, shined faintly in his peripheral vision. It must have been directly above his head, but he’s so crushed forward, he couldn’t crane his neck any further to see. There wasn’t enough light to see his hands four inches from his face, but at least he wouldn’t suffocate. Yet. With the battle still raging outside, a hole punched through the station’s outer wall was getting more and more possible every minute.

Keith breathed, trying to get his heartbeat under control. He needed to think. So what, he was crushed between a plate of metal thick enough to beat a Haggar-designed energy blast and a beam that had been one of the main load bearing structures in a space station bigger than most train stations back on Earth. He could get out of this. If he couldn’t, he’d have to be rescued, and if he couldn’t manage to bust out of something this stupid, he didn’t really deserve to be rescued anyways. That thought sent his brain into high gear, which was obviously why he thought it, Keith decided.

Okay. Systems check, just like when you boot back up a ship after a crash. Nothing broken, but the shorter ribs in the bottom of his chest definitely felt bruised, as does his shoulder. And his wrist. And his knees, both of which were bleeding, skinned. He knew this because his face was pressed against them, and he could smell the blood. Helmet’s gone, and something was cracked in his armor, so he didn’t have any communications and really couldn’t take any direct hits, not to the chest or back at least, without risking a leak in the main battery pack. His bayard was...somewhere, tossed over the curve of the station after Haggar’s most recent monstrosity had pulled it out of its scaled, lizard-like eyeball. Keith had pulled his knife and clambered up the monster’s slick belly, aiming for the throbbing mass of quintessence at its forehead, but the thing had recovered quicker than he’d expected. One nasty fall, frantic roll for cover and painfully large blast of heat from four of the monster’s six tentacles later, and here he was.

Stuck. 

In the dark, smelling of blood and sweat and plastic-metal armor. The sounds of battle, screeches of the monster and growling roars of the other Lions- Black was out there, and Yellow had caught up finally -began to grow fainter. Just as his heart finally began to obey him, slowing down enough to hear the gaps between heartbeats, it was becoming the loudest sound in his little hellhole. His breathing echoed against the metal. He shifted his weight, feeling the solid walls around him, and winced as an involuntary little sound, a pitiful little sound, escaped his mouth.

Times passed slowly, or quickly. The only way to tell would be to count his heartbeats, and he can’t. He had to focus, do anything, try anything. He started straining where he could, against the walls, up at the places where the beam hits the panel, the weakest points but: nothing. No movement but his own. No sound but his own. No light, but the lightning line of air just above his head.

He was starting to wonder, really. This could be it. This, trapped in a space smaller than any cockpit, alone and in the dark, this could be how he died. Not in battle, not that he’d really prefer that. Not behind the controls of a speeder, a fighter jet, turning into his final barrel roll like any true pilot. Not sick, or at home, or surrounded by his family. Not even by his own hand, just, by accident. Flicked off the side of an overgrown space squid, but not even having the decency to die from it. 

Keith wondered if the team would look for his body. He also thought, if he has to wonder about that, he should already know the answer. 

His life started passing through his head. Things he did do, things he should have done, things he _could_ have done but didn’t. Shoulda-coulda-woulda; all the irritating little modals. He should be focusing, finding his core, reaching out to Red and getting the fuck out of here! But no, instead, every fucking regret he’s ever had starts parading over his eyes. It wasn’t like he didn’t get enough of that on his own, without having to be five minutes from certain death. No, when you were going long and slow, you didn’t even get a courtesy break from self-reflection.

He screamed, suddenly, slamming the ball of his hands against the metal walls. If the tenta-beast hears him, it’ll at least be quicker than this, this fucking nightmare. Keith slapped and punched and kicked as much as he could, until the metal smell of his own blood broke through everything that hurt and told him his knuckles were bleeding, his knees were worse, and he was a fucking idiot for letting his emotions get the best of him. The world slowed down. Painful, excruciating exhaustion seeped into his bones.

There were worse ways to die, probably, but he’d take them over being stuck in a hole. He felt like the walls were inching closer, and tried to ignore it. Breathe. That’s all he could do now, right? Just breathe, till you can’t anymore.

Black, and Shiro inside her, had probably already taken off half the tenta blasts. It’d been long enough for Pidge to finish her part of the mission, copying some Galra maps and then wiping them to make a little blindspot in their galactic navigation system, hopefully big enough for a planet or three. They hadn’t been out there yet, but soon, maybe, if it worked, they’d have the foundations for a new Altea. And if it didn’t, fucking with Galra navigations was a nice goal in and of itself. 

Yellow had been providing cover for Blue’s half of the mission (Hunk and Lance were unstoppable together, Keith thought, biting down the strange twinge of insecurity it invoked. Hunk’s reticence and caution was balanced almost perfectly by Lance’s recklessness, and somehow their particular brands of ridiculous snapped into place like a jigsaw puzzle. It worked, okay, that was all), distracting station command long enough for Green to get inside and Red/Black to take out the big-ass experimental guns hidden in an extra unit of the station. At least, that had been Yellow’s job, till Red had knocked over one of the brand new turrets and accidentally unleashed Haggar’s nifty new pet. When Keith had sent Red off to cover the station’s core and keep them all alive, jumping out to take on the tenta-freak with his Bayard, Yellow had broken off to help. He appreciated the thought, really, but it had only given him something else to worry about. And, well, left Lance alone.

Lance. Keith didn’t think that Lance was helpless _per se_ , he’d seen the boy take out most of a squad of Galra with nothing more than indirection and a half-round in his bayard, but... He needed help. Especially in battle situations like this, especially against Haggar’s unholy creations. Lance had a maddening ability to find himself in the most dangerous part of any battle, and half the time, he’d created the situation himself. If Lance was left alone with a ship, even with Blue, for long enough, Keith would swear on his favorite knife that system failures would just manifest from thin air and something would be set on fire. It’s just what happened when that boy went unsupervised.

And it was dangerous! They needed Lance. He was... important. Keith didn’t like thinking about why, exactly, Lance was important. He just _was_. Half of everything he did was absolutely maddening but Keith could barely remember what it was like to not have that madness in his life.

Then there was the other thing, too. Late at night, on the training deck. Going through the sets with the dulled sword a thousand times, till his legs burned and his arms were slick with sweat, going through the battle a thousand times in his head, trying to figure out the exact set of mistakes he made that had led up to Lance getting caught by a stray shot. He had begun to feel the blisters on his palms slough off, start to bleed in his gloves, when cool hands grabbed his shoulders, spun him around. 

Lance’s face, wide eyed in the half light, demanding answers. Muttered apologies, trying to pull away but half hearted, letting the other boy peel his fingers away from the sword and pull him to the sinks to wash the stinging sweat off. Keith was still tense, then, unable to keep his eyes away from the clear wrap around Lance’s upper arm, the arm he _needed_ to hold his bayard, and yet unable to look straight at him. He knew Lance already felt like he was only holding the team back! He knew, and he let him get hurt, and-

“Don’t be stupid,” Lance was whispering. “You saved my life. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

And then he was collapsing, letting himself be pulled forward into Lance’s arms. His face buried in Lance’s shoulder, the place where his neck curves down to his collarbone, soft dark skin that smelled like the cryo-pods but also sweet shower gel, the wool from the lining of his coat. Keith held on for dear life until he could breathe again, could look up and-

Lance’s lips were warm like Red’s cockpit, like the rush Keith felt after battle, like the growl of his old motorcycle on Earth. His hands were low on Keith’s hips, curling into his shirt. Keith ran his fingertips down Lance’s arms, winced when he felt the bandage, but Lance deepend the kiss and the guilt that had been still clawing into his mind till that moment melted away for just long enough to breathe in the other boy. He tasted like skin, in the way that all kisses taste like skin. When they pulled apart, forehead to forehead, Keith could see a bit of his own soul in the earthy amber of Lance’s eyes.

Kissing was something they did now. Touching was something they did now: Lance’s hand on his back as they walked through the winding halls of the Castle, Keith ruffling Lance’s hair when he did something stupid, which was a lot of things, shoulders pressed together as they listened to Allura get into the details of their newest strategy. Every time they passed each other, in training or travel or just in the corridor, their hands would meet for just a second, and warmth would travel up Keith’s arm through his entire body, toes to forehead, and linger there for days. He needed it. He needed Lance.

In the dark, he closed his eyes tight, and watched a new kind of darkness. Patterns appeared. Lance on the training deck, challenging him to a fight. Lance smiling as they ate in a galactic food court high above a carbon dioxide sea. Lance begging Pidge to show him how to pull up a second comms line in Blue, and then using it later to goad Keith into another of their many games of Lion Chicken.

His heartbeat slowed enough that he could listen, really listen, outside of the metal prison. Distant rumbles suggested the battle still raged, somewhere in the station. Keith tried to filter that out, listen around the sharp crashes of the guns and screeches of metal hitting metal. Slowly, he could make out other, closer things: A high pitched whine, air or chemicals leaking out of the station. Dripping oil from the rend he’d torn in the wall. Sizzles of more directly hit metal beginning to cool in the station’s air. And, just underneath it all, disjointed thumping that separated into three sets when he focused hard.

Footsteps. Someone, or three someones (two small, pattering against metal, and one echoing, bending metal) was combing through the rubble of the station. He could hear the creaks of metal being overturned, and then a bang as it was let back down. He could even, faintly, hear voices, though they were too muffled to make more than ghostly sense of.

Garrison training kicked in. He curled up, as far away from the wall he was pretty sure faced the searchers as he could get, and began to pound with the side of his least damaged fist. bang-bang-bang pause, Bang-Bang-Bang pause, bang-bang-bang. Double pause, repeat. SOS. He’d forgotten he’d even learned that. Maybe, when they put you in a ship for long enough, it just sort of seeped into your brain. 

The footsteps still sounded disjointed, far away. He kept up the signal. Hours passed, or minutes, or seconds. He couldn’t tell. The voices seemed to grow a bit fainter as the walls around him moved in and out. Keith felt like he could almost hear the bangs in his head, like his arm wasn’t his own, but rather the drum of some far away rock band. His heartbeat seemed to fall in line with it. Bang-bang-bang pause, Bang-Bang-Bang pause, bang-bang-bang. Double pause, repeat. He could feel it in his bones.

Light came like water pouring over a cliff. With a great metallic screech, the panel was gingerly pried away from the beam by the gaping mouth of one of the Lions. Colors felt too close, too real, as Keith blinked away the stars in his eyes but he did see the yellow across the Lion’s jaw. Relief hit him like a truck. He tried to push off the ground, move to stand.

“Woah, woah, woah!” Voices hit him harder. He hadn’t realized how odd sound sounded, this close up. But he knew that voice, better than he knew the pulsing SOS that still rung in his ears. He let Lance take half his weight, but still demanded to stand.

“Thank fuck, oh thank fuck.” Lance sounded teary. He maneuvered them both, one arm wrapped around Keith’s hips, until they sat across Yellow’s front paw. He brushed Keith’s hair out of the way, as if he just needed to see his face to know he was alive. “Keith....” His voice sounded wrecked. Keith hazarded a look up.

Lance still wore his helmet, with the visor up. His lips were bitten, but they were usually bitten, as much as Lance talked about the importance of hydration. His armor was scuffed and dirty, like he’d been tearing a battlefield of warped metal apart with his bare hands. And he really was teary, wet lines tracing the soft curves of his cheek. Keith reached up to brush at it, and winced when he saw the state of his gloves and, by extension, hands. Lance gently took him by the wrist, worked off the shredded armor, and barely paused before he kissed his bloody knuckles. Keith let him remove the other glove, and begin to fiddle with the catches of his ruined chestplate. As the chestplate dropped away, the all-consuming tightness in his chest faded as well. The near memory of being about to die, of systematically going through his entire life, welled up in Keith’s mind. He pushed it away. Lance was- He had Lance, now. He had no need for modal verbs.

They didn’t speak, not yet. They didn’t need to.

\-----------------------------------

Hunk dropped down from the cockpit into Yellow’s mouth, first aid kit in hand, and paused. The two boys, while not actually wrapped around each other, were definitely having a moment. Lance thought he was being subtle, but Hunk had caught them snogging in the kitchen like a week ago, and had only barely convinced Pidge not to turn this footage she’d grabbed of them in the training deck into a meme. They were cute, really, when they thought no one was watching and dropped the whole, ‘fuck you and the horse you rode in on, I see no sexual tension here’ act. Keith really needed a doctor, and a cryo-pod, and probably a hug, but. Hunk figured they needed their moment. 

He swung his legs down from Yellow’s jaws, counted to thirty, and then let the first aid kit drop with a bang onto the metal directly in front of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Hrnnng this was not the fic I intended to write. I _intended_ to make a porny one-shot to celebrate 2000 hits on my other fic. As you may have noticed, that is really not the direction this took. This and Medical Duty do not take place in the same universe, but goddamn, self-destructive Keith is _my jam_. 
> 
> Y'all can find my Voltron blog at kieth-the-rad.tumblr.com.


End file.
